Tempest
by Sailor Comet
Summary: A wedding fanfic. 3x4 shonen ai. Murphy's Law is in full effect and Trowa's finding it difficult to keep Quatre from getting too upset.


I could write a lot of author's notes about this, but we'll condense it: this is short, because wedding fics are hard to write. This is possibly OOC, because I haven't written Gundam Wing in a year or three. The title only makes sense to me, and to anybody else will probably seem kind of random.

That said, I hope that mephistowaltz enjoys it. This was done for the Gundam Wing Wedding Ficathon, and that was the person who I was assigned to fic for, and I hope I didn't do too badly.

34 shonen ai.

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**Tempest**

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"What do you mean," he demanded into the phone, voice coldly threatening, "you don't have the reservations?"

On the other side of the hotel room, Trowa froze at that tone of voice, before vaulting over the bed to pluck the phone from Quatre's hand. He silenced the blond's protests with a finger against his lips, eyes locking as he pleaded for the other to come back down from his rage. It wouldn't do at all to have Quatre upset, especially not today—and averting disaster was going to be_ extra_ difficult today, since the blond was already high-strung—so Trowa placed the phone back on the receiver and wrapped his arms around the other man.

"Trowa!" Quatre's voice was no longer a tone that spoke of imminent doom and destruction, but simply frustrated. This was a good sign; if Quatre had continued with his earlier tone that sent chills down Trowa's back, all would have been lost. "What am I going to do; where will our guests _sleep_ if they've lost the reservations?"

"Well, first you'll calm down, and then we'll have Catherine check if they still have vacancies."

Quatre leaned against him, beginning to relax but still protesting. "But what if—"

"Quatre." Said blond paused in his panic. "Hush. Things are going to work out."

Privately, Quatre doubted that, but he allowed the brunet man to think he was calm. The wedding wasn't going to be an incredibly huge event—Quatre had seen enough of those from his family—but it was still his wedding, and he wanted it to be perfect. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be going quite right. The flowers still hadn't arrived yet, Dorothy was still hung over from the party they'd thrown last night, and minor things seemed to be going wrong one after the other, building up and making Quatre's stress shoot through the roof. The photographer had arrived on time, at least, but nobody was dressed and ready for pictures, so they'd sent her to the reception location without having accomplished much of anything.

Now, the hotel didn't have any record of all the reservations Quatre had made—and that deposit had been expensive, too! He was pissed, though he tried to focus on Trowa instead. It worked, a little, but the fact remained that there were a little less than seventy people who would need places to stay that night. (Surprisingly, more of the guests were there for Trowa than for Quatre, since other workers at the circus were like family and Trowa hadn't known what to do other than to invite them.)

Trowa ran his fingers through the other man's short hair before moving back enough to look into bright blue eyes. "Today is _our_ day. Everything's going to be _fine_." He gave Quatre a quick kiss and a smile.

Quatre smiled back. He could believe that when Trowa said it. It was always Trowa calming him down, stopping him from rushing about in a crazed panic, forcing him to come back down to Earth (figuratively speaking, since they were in the colonies more often than not) and realize that things weren't that bad. Even after ten years, their roles hadn't changed much, though most people didn't realize how often Quatre actually needed calming down.

He was glad he'd given the family business to one of his sisters. Not only did she have a much better mind for business, but Quatre would have keeled over from the stress on day one.

Though he wasn't always this bad, but today was supposed to be perfect. It was his wedding; he and Trowa were finally tying the knot. They'd lived together for years, and eventually, excuses like, "We're not sure how we'd handle joint finances," or, "What if we have to change locations for business reasons?" were no longer applicable in any way. Even then, they'd lived together for so long without being married, actually making the union official wasn't top priority.

Finally, a half-wasted Dorothy had told them that if they didn't feel passionately enough about each other to consider marriage, then what was the point of staying together? There had been a long argument after that about what exactly was wrong with that statement, because two people could still be utterly in love and not every marry. The argument wasn't the most coherent ever, due to the large amounts of alcohol circulating (it had been at Duo's New Years party, after all), and very few could remember what all had been said. (Trowa, who remembered the entire night, was very good at keeping the details to himself.) The end result, however, was that a more-than-half-wasted Quatre had declared that getting hitched was one of the best ideas he'd heard in a while, and that July would be a good month for it.

In the morning, he didn't really remember any of this until Trowa had started looking online for nice places to have the reception. (Trowa was one of those annoying people who would drink but not get drunk at parties, remember everything, and in the morning tell you just how much of a fool you'd been the night before.)

Still, once the idea had been accepted, it had become exciting. Soon enough Quatre was anticipating the event, planning and making sure all the details would be just right.

Now it was all falling apart on the day. Next, he could just imagine his cell phone ringing and Dorothy telling him that the cake was chocolate instead of coffee flavoured, and then even Trowa wouldn't be able to stop him from killing something.

Unless Trowa kept kissing him like that. Then the hotel and the flowers and even Dorothy being massively hung over wouldn't really matter. Because all that did matter, even when they weren't making out in the messy hotel room half an hour before the ceremony, was him and Trowa. Even if the wedding _was_ a colossal disaster and Trowa wasn't able to stop him from maiming the caterers or the hotel receptionist, after that night, he would still have Trowa.

In fact, that night he would have Trowa all to himself, but he would need to get his mind off that track if he wanted to make it to the ceremony on time.

His cell phone started to ring, and reluctantly he latched onto that distraction to break the kiss with Trowa. The other man wasn't exactly enthusiastic about stopping, but rested his head on Quatre's shoulder as the blond answered the phone.

"Quatre?" Dorothy's voice, and somebody must have given her some asprin, because she didn't sound nearly as strained as she had before. "Doll, you're not going to like this, but your cake—"

Quatre threw the phone across the room and silently vowed never to get married again.

He was sure Trowa would help him with that.

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(la fin)

(il n'y a pas de problème quand je suis avec toi.)


End file.
